My Husband Humiliated Me for Postpartum Leakage—Then I Took His Company

On my second day back at work after giving birth, during a presentation in the conference room, he suddenly pinched his nose and cut me off: "Why do you always smell like... pee and milk? You really need to watch your image around here." Dozens of eyes swiveled toward me in unison. I stood motionless, but my fingers slowly dug into my palm. Because everything he said was true. After a vaginal delivery, I couldn't control my bladder or my milk. I'd leak if I sat too long, if I got emotional—even crying would make me leak. For this presentation, I'd specifically worn a sanitary pad and four layers of nursing pads, and I hadn't even dared to drink a sip of water before leaving. But he still thought I was an embarrassment. "Amara, take a leave to recuperate for now. The company can't hand the VP position to someone who can't even control her own body." I looked at the man who had once held my hand outside the delivery room and said, "You worked so hard, my love," and suddenly he felt like a stranger. But he didn't know that if it weren't for me, my father would never have invested in this company. What he personally ended that day wasn't just my position. He'd also cut off the entire company's lifeline. ***** When I walked out of the conference room, the entire floor already knew I had been suspended. The hallway wasn't long, but it felt like it went on forever. My steps only halted when I reached my office door. The nameplate beside the door was gone. Where the "Vice President's Office" sign once hung, only two shallow nail holes remained. I stood there, and for a moment couldn't even process it. My assistant, Cora, stood nearby holding documents, her face terribly pale, her voice trembling as she called out to me. "Ms. Winslow." I looked at that empty spot and asked her, "Who took it down?" Cora lowered her head. "Mr. Emerson had someone from administration take it down." I asked, "When?" She replied, "Just now." I suddenly laughed. Just now. Which meant, while I was still standing in the conference room being stared at by everyone, there were already people outside waiting to remove my nameplate. So everything that happened today wasn't a spur-of-the-moment decision. They had been sharpening their knives for a while, waiting to use them on me. I pushed open the door. As soon as the door opened, a faint scent of perfume drifted out. I looked up and saw Brielle Reed standing inside, head lowered as she flipped through the documents on my desk. At the sound, she turned and smiled at me. "Ms. Winslow, you're here." But I immediately spotted the coffee cup in her hand. That was mine. The cup had my daughter's birth date printed on it. Back then, Aaron Emerson had it custom-made, saying that when she was a bit older, he'd show it to her and tell her how much we'd wanted her. Now, that cup sat beside Brielle. Like a joke. I walked in slowly. The things on the desk had already been mostly packed away. The project materials I usually kept on the left had been neatly stacked into cardboard boxes. All the drawers hung open, mostly empty. Even my breast pump, nursing pads, and spare sanitary pads from the cabinet had been pulled out and piled together with the documents. Work and humiliation, packed into the same box. I stood there in silence. Brielle picked up a document and held it out to me. "Mr. Emerson asked me to go through the handover with you first. He said you're not up to it physically right now, so I'll take over for now. You can focus on getting better." I didn't take it. I just asked her, "Is this what Aaron wants?" She nodded, her tone still gentle. "Yes." I didn't look at her again. I walked straight to the computer and hit the power button. After I'd entered the password, only one line popped up on the screen: Account deactivated. I stared at those words, my fingers frozen on the keys. A few seconds later, I looked down at my phone. The project group chat was gone. The executive group chat was gone. The financial approval group chat was gone too. I felt like I was being stripped away from this company, bit by bit. The aching pressure in my chest surged up right then. I looked down. A small wet patch was slowly spreading across the front of my shirt. The nursing pads were soaked through again. I instinctively grabbed a document to cover it, but I fumbled, knocking over the cardboard box next to me. Everything inside spilled out with a loud clatter. The breast pump rolled onto the floor, and a pack of unopened sanitary pads slid out beside it. The office fell silent. I bent down to pick them up, but a soft voice came from the doorway. "Open the windows and let some air in." I paused. When my fingertips touched that cold breast pump, my eyes still instantly burned with tears. I picked up the things from the floor one by one. As if I were gathering up the last six months of my life. On one side, my child. On the other, the company. I'd worn myself to exhaustion, thinking I was keeping both sides afloat. In the end, they only saw me as dirty, an embarrassment, not decent enough. That's when my phone rang. It was my mother-in-law, Fiona, calling. I'd barely picked up when she started talking. "Aaron said you don't have to work today?" I didn't say anything. She took my silence as confirmation and continued, "Then come home early. Don't wander around outside. That smell on your body right now, you might not notice it, but others certainly can." My throat tightened. I asked in a low voice, "What about the baby?" Her tone was flat. "She just fell asleep. Come in quietly. Don't go waking her up again." I was silent for a few seconds, but still said, "Fiona, I miss her." She fired back, "What's there to miss? Get yourself cleaned up first. Take a bath when you get back. Don't go around smelling like milk and urine." After the call ended, I packed up some of my things and took a taxi home. Outside, the traffic streamed by endlessly. I stared at the steering wheel in front of me and suddenly remembered something from long ago. My father had looked at Aaron's profile, frowned, and told me, "This man carries too much weight in his heart. You might never be able to reach him." Back then, I didn't believe him. Now I finally believed him.